


Sharper Than A Serpent's Tooth

by RunRabbitRun



Category: Thief (Original Trilogy), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Caretaking, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or "How Garrett Learned to Stop Griping and Accept Help. Sometimes. Maybe. From Artemus only."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Really, this is just silly self-indulgence. ARTEMUS, WE HARDLY KNEW YE!

As he sat in front of his meager fire, wringing brackish water out of his socks and cursing Hammers, zombies, Basso, and that taffer Cutty, Garrett swore up and down that he’d never do a job in a prison again. Unless the ‘job’ was breaking his own self out of one, of course. Too damn risky and ultimately profitless. Frankly, he was surprised the Hammers hadn’t simply _sniffed_ him out, soaked in stagnant water, streaked in soot, and flecked with bits of the undead as he was. Morosely, he scratched at a piece of caked on _something_ that had stuck itself to his tunic. Basso had been grateful enough for the rescue, even if his sister wasn’t, but Basso wasn’t why he’d gone in. _Cutty_ was. He’d set Garrett up with his first real jobs after those first few hungry weeks out in the City, picking pockets and breaking into inns and apartment buildings just to keep in bread and bed.

Cutty, who’d been white and green and practically already dead when Garrett had found him in that cell and still had given Garrett a tip. Cutty had been... reliable. Garrett scrubbed hard at his tunic and vowed to start researching the Bonehoard as soon as he found another fence. Or two. Cutty had been his _only_ fence since he’d started working and look where that had gotten him: damp and cold and smelling like an open grave with a pile of loot he had to sit on because he couldn’t sell it off himself.

The smoke from the fire made his eyes itch unbearably but he resisted the urge to rub at them. Instead he got up and dumped the tub out the window and padded downstairs to get another load of water. It would be well after dawn by the time he finished getting himself, his gear, and his clothes clean. He refused to leave such a damn stinking mess just lying around. The Keepers had made cleanliness stick, if nothing else.

He ended up not getting to bed until well after midmorning. He locked the shutters and collapsed onto his pallet, still a bit wet from taking a vigorous whore’s bath out of the washbasin. He promised himself a real bath as soon as he got some sleep. His limbs had started to ache like an old man’s (he remembered his old teacher Artemus griping quietly on cold mornings) and all he wanted to do was cover himself from the chill and not come out for at least a few days.

When Garrett awoke the next evening it was to a scratchy throat and soreness in his joints. The red light from the setting sun lanced through the shutters and stung his eyes, rousing him painfully from his dozing. He dragged himself out of bed and almost immediately found himself hunched over, coughing and heaving. His already raw throat burned like fire and he clutched at it as though that could stop the pain. He wiped his wet nose on a spare handkerchief and frowned darkly at his pale reflection in his small, spotty mirror. If he was a believer, he’d say the Builder himself was getting revenge on him for splashing around in his precious mines.

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t afford to lay about on a heap of Hammer treasure because he was hungover from a job. He had the unenviable task of finding a new fence to deal with, not to mention Felix’s old notes on the Bonehoard. The rent wasn’t going to pay itself. He bypassed the slightly stale bread and apples in his pantry in favor of some strong tea, to which he added a dollop of precious, hoarded honey to help with his damned throat. He was tempted to throw in a dram of mead as well, but he needed to be sharp. A good fence was hard to sniff out even if one wasn’t a coughing mess.

The Crippled Burrick was always a good place to start. It would probably be useless within a couple of years due to rising popularity, but for now it was still a likely place to look for a new business partner. It was a quiet evening in the little pub, with only two of the usual five-to-ten barflies hanging around the counter. In the back corner, a snaggle-toothed, tow-headed man with a face like a donkey sat hunched over a tankard, quietly discussing something with a dark-haired woman; Sammie, just the man Garrett wanted to see. He refused an ale from the barmaid but purchased a sweetroll so he wouldn’t be kicked out for loitering. He nibbled absently on it while he waited for Sammie to finish up with the woman but he had no appetite for anything. The tea seemed to slosh unpleasantly in his stomach and the sweetroll sat like cement on his tongue. Maybe he should have gotten an ale, he thought; the pub was _stifling_.

Finally the woman stood and left, brushing deliberately past Garrett with a sly smile on her pale, lovely face. Garrett glowered at her and quickly took her seat across from Sammie.

  
“Oh! Oh, Garrett, it’s you. Hehe-“ Sammie tittered nervously, nearly knocking over his tankard. “I didn’t know _you’d_ be here tonight.”

“Should I have made an appointment?” Garrett asked, allowing a small sneer to twist his mouth. 

“Ha! No, no, not at all!” Sammie took a swig of his drink and plunked the empty tankard back down, sloshing a little on the tabletop. “I just, uh, I just thought you dealt with Cutty _exclusively_.”

“Cutty’s dead. Died in his cell at Cragscleft,” Garrett said. He could feel a light sweat breaking out along his hairline. It was early winter, for Builder’s sake, when did it get so warm? One of the patrons at the bar pulled their cloak closer around their shoulders. 

“Oh,” Sammie frowned. “I heard he’d been picked up but… Oh, well. Poor ol’ Cutty. Y’know he helped me get started in the business way back?”

“Uh-huh. Listen Sammie, as much as I’d like to eulogize poor ol’ Cutty, I did come here for a reason. This isn’t a social call,” Garrett said.

“Of course not,” Sammie said with a smirk. “So, with Cutty gone to meet the Builder I’m guessing you need help offloading some merch, right?”

“Right,” Garrett said. He wished dearly that he knew a greater number of trustworthy fences.

“What have you got for me?”

“Raw gemstones and precious metals, a few art pieces, jewelry, some, ah, religious icons,” Garrett listed. “I’ve also got a very interesting piece from Bafford’s that Cutty wanted.”

“Lord Bafford? What- Oh. Oh, you mean his-“ Sammie gestured vaguely “His… thing. That went missing.”

Garrett nodded.

“Well then,” Sammie said, showing every equine tooth in his crooked mouth. “I believe I can work with that. The special piece will need to be broken up, of course. You can do that and bring me the relevant parts, right? Right. Good. The religious items you’ll have to find another home for. I might suggest talking up the lady Viktoria for that. She was here just before you. She deals in artifacts a little.”

“Don’t know her. I’ll stick with my current contacts, thanks. When can you take delivery?” Garrett asked. His throat was getting worse and he was considering jumping in a snowbank to cool off. His back ached from sitting on the hard, wooden bench. Gods, he was tired. It was probably Sammie’s face doing that.

“Come see me next week at the shop. I need to find a buyer for the… you know. I can think of a few already.”

“Ask around and see if you know anyone interested in musical instruments or historical items,” Garrett said.

“Done. See you in a week,” Sammie held out his hand and they shook on it. “Damnation, Garrett, your hands are freezing! When you get your cut, invest in a pair of mittens, yeah?”

“Taff off,” Garrett said, getting up from the table. He was hit with a wave of dizziness but forced himself to keep his balance all the way out the door.

The cold air was a blessing on his face as he started to make the long, meandering walk home. His flat wasn’t that far for the pub, but he always took the long way back, cutting through alleys chosen at random and hopping the occasional roof. For the first few minutes, the cool air was refreshing and it gave him a little extra spring in his step, as did the success with Sammie. The fence had a reputation for stinginess but not untrustworthiness. Nevertheless, Garrett made plans to visit a few other sources. He knew Ramien in the Old Quarter would be interested in the Hammer pieces he’d picked up and… wait, where was he?

Garrett stopped in a shadowed niche between two buildings and squinted around him. He seemed to have wandered a bit while lost in his thoughts. He thought he was headed northwest but if he craned his neck he could make out the sign for the Crippled Burrick. Had he circled back around without realizing it? He rubbed his hands together and blew into them briskly; he was still sweating like a pagan at Temple but his fingers felt frostbitten. He breathed deep to blow another gust of warm air over his hands, but his chest rattled and he coughed loud and long, hunching over from the wracking in his lungs. He tried to cover his mouth but it did little to muffle the noise. When the fit subsided, Garrett spat whatever his lungs had expelled onto the ground and checked his hands for blood. Thankfully, there wasn’t any, though his throat certainly felt shredded and raw. Right, he needed to get home soon; Ramien could wait. Whatever creeping nastiness he’d picked up in the mines needed to be slept off before he could do any more business.

He took a westerly route until he came to a familiar neighborhood with accessible rooftops. He tried to mantle up a low garden wall but his arms would not lift his weight. He grasped for the top of the wall, boots scraping at the stones, but his arms burned with exertion and another violent coughing fit took him over. He dropped to the ground and collapsed to his knees, which had suddenly grown weak. Growling and cursing fiercely, he stifled his coughs until his lungs ached and his ribs felt cracked. His vision was going fuzzy around the edges, but thoughts of being easy pickings for some rookie watchman spurred him to stand up and make one more attempt at getting to the rooftops.

Slowly and carefully, he pulled himself up the wall, resisting the urge to lie along it and gasp for air when he finally grappled to the top. With shaking hands and watery legs, he dragged himself up some low-hanging eaves and crawled up to the ridge. He coughed again, stuffing his mouth into the crook of his arm and hoping the residents of the house below him were heavy sleepers. Finally, the wracking ended and he laid back against the tiled slope of the roof for a moment, catching his breath and trying to dredge up memories for a suitable route. It would be long and circuitous, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about being tripped over by a watchman. Taking a deep, rattling breath, Garrett got unsteadily to his feet, preparing himself for the long walk home.

As he straightened himself, he placed an unwary foot on a patch of ice, hidden in the crack between two roof tiles. His heel slipped from beneath him and, before he could even realize what had happened, Garrett fell backwards and slid down the roof and out into the air. He made a grab for the eaves but his trembling, freezing fingertips barely grazed them and he plummeted down into the garden below.

He landed with a painful crash into some ornamental shrubs, which cushioned his fall but also scratched him like a hundred tiny cat’s claws. He broke through the branches and hit the ground hard. The wind was knocked from his lungs, his whole body screamed out with pain, and the blackness hovering at the corner of his sight rushed in. The last he saw was something shaped like a man standing over him, reaching for his face.


	2. Chapter 2

“Stupid, _stupid_ boy,” Artemus hissed. He cradled Garrett’s face in his hands, tucking his thumbs under his chin to feel for a pulse. At the first touch of Garrett’s skin his heart plummeted; he was _burning_. 

“Is he dead?” Nathan asked, standing a few feet away, ostensibly keeping watch.

Artemus didn’t answer. He waited to relax until he could feel a fluttering pulse, far too fast, in Garrett’s throat; but a fall could mean a hundred ghastly things even without death.

The back door of the house opened, and the garden was washed in flickering candlelight. The two Keepers crouched down low, and Artemus threw his cloak over Garrett to cover his prone form in shadow. A woman in a nightrobe stood for a few moments on the back steps, candle outstretched in one hand. Her tired gaze slid right over the three men hiding in the bushes and she turned away, muttering about _damn alleycats_. When the door closed again, Nathan let out a long, quiet breath.

Artemus flung his cloak away from Garrett and bent to feel along the back of his neck. Gently, he lifted the young man’s head and turned it slightly, breathing relief when he felt no unnatural looseness or twisting in his nape. His arms and legs appeared alright, though he would need more light and a better location to tell for sure.

“Help me with him,” Artemus hissed, levering Garrett to a sitting position and preparing to take him in a soldier’s carry. Nathan dutifully took Garrett’s legs and helped Artemus heft him up over his shoulders.

“Is he going to be alright? What are _you_ going to do?” Nathan asked, frantic. “We can’t take him back to the compound, the council would want to try us for sure, or they’d lock him up-“

“Hush, I’m not taking him back to the compound,” Artemus assured the young Keeper. “I’m taking him home. You go back to the compound and tell them I… no, don't tell them anything. I'll be back before dawn."

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked, wringing his pale hands.

“Yes, just get the gate for me and _go_. Hurry!”

Nathan nodded and hurriedly opened the garden gate for Artemus. The elder Keeper took off down the street and didn’t look behind to see if Nathan was gone. However, he heard the light tap and scrape of a stone wall being climbed, and he was alone with his former charge.

It was slow going; Garrett was heavy and Artemus felt every year of his age in his shoulders and back. He took alleyways and darted from shadow to shadow when he had to. It wasn’t the stealthiest he’d ever been, but he didn’t run into any trouble. Like most Keepers, he knew the City’s twisting, arterial streets by heart, and the route to Garrett’s home was deeply ingrained. He usually stood his watches over his wayward student alone, but tonight Nathan had practically begged to come with. Nathan and Garrett had been close when they were students, so Artemus did not have the heart to simply slip away and leave the young Keeper at the compound. As Artemus silently trekked across the City, he thanked his lucky stars he’d let Nathan come along; the young man could cover for him and keep the suspicion of the Elders at bay.

Artemus would join their ranks soon, but that did not mean they would look upon his dealings with approval. His ongoing vigil over Garrett was tolerated, but for how long?

Artemus gave himself a mental shake. Now was not the time to worry about that. Nathan would cover for him.

Slipping past the single, dozing guard in the lobby of Garrett’s tenement was child’s play; the real challenge was lugging the unconscious thief up the flight of stairs to his apartment. Unbidden, a memory of hauling a dripping and surly thirteen-year-old boy out of the canal in the training yard surfaced. Garrett had been skinny and short back then, easy to lift even when soaking wet. It wasn’t until he was about fifteen that he suddenly shot up like a wheat stalk, going from stripling boy to a tall and broad-shouldered young man almost overnight. He was stronger and _heavier_ as an adult than he was an adolescent, and every step up to his apartment was a struggle.

Once he got into Garrett’s apartment (he had to rifle through the boy’s seemingly endless collection of pockets for the key), Artemus gratefully laid him down on the bed and took a few moments to recover his strength. He popped his back and groaned, sitting down on Garrett’s bed to rest. The flat was small, but well kept; a sparse two-room suite with very little personality beyond the inherent, _deliberate_ utilitarianism. If Garrett was such a master thief, scourge of merchants and minor nobility across the City, then where was his wealth? Artemus shook the thoughts and turned his attention to Garrett; he was breathing normally, but there was a deep rattling sound in his breaths that worried him.

Artemus took up Garrett’s wrist and felt for a pulse. His skin was hot and damp, and his heartbeat was still unusually fast. Artemus wasn’t a healer, but he lived long enough to recognize danger when he saw it. Garrett needed cooling down, and fluids, as quickly as possible.

Once he was sure his knees would not give out under him, Artemus stood and did a quick search or the apartment. There were a couple of bottles of middling-decent wines on a sideboard, and the woodpile next to the cold fireplace was well-stocked. Artemus opened a cabinet at random and, ah, _here_ was where the money went, or at least most of it. Four shelves of neatly arranged books gleamed at him, dust-free and protected from mold and light in their little cupboard. Closer inspection revealed them to be a diverse collection; histories, a couple of poetry anthologies, a lot of technical manuals, a lovely hardbound atlas, a few penny dreadful novels (Artemus scoffed but stroked the bent spines with fondness), and a whole collection of pilfered letters, diaries, and pocket agendas. Shaking his head and cracking a small smile, Artemus closed the cupboard and returned to looking for supplies for aiding his ailing charge. Another cupboard revealed basic kitchen trappings, including food and more strong, stimulating tea and coffee than one man probably needed. The little pantry was well stocked, but with the plain, peasant food one could find in any commoner’s cupboard. It would do.

Artemus set to work. He opened the shutters to let in some fresh air and set Garrett’s mostly-full washbasin on the sill to cool in the winter air. He found some clean rags in another cabinet and set them out as well. Then, bracing himself, Artemus knelt by Garrett’s bedside and shook his shoulder.

“Garrett? Garrett wake up.”


	3. Chapter 3

He is lying half-awake in his old bed in the dormitories. The wool blanket is scratchy and musty but warm. It’s usually a blessing in the cold winter months when the coal braziers strain to heat the large dorm rooms and even the most stoic elders rub their hands together and wear their heavy cloaks indoors. As it is, he is sweating through the linens and has kicked the blanket to the foot of the bed. In an hour or two he’ll be shivering so hard that all the blankets in the world wouldn’t warm him up, but for now the burning cycle of the sickness holds strong. He coughs weakly and clenches his fists against the fire in his throat. Across the room, another boy groans and rolls over in his sleep. It’s the middle of the day but Garrett and three others are still in their nightshirts and bedridden; the infirmary is full and the uninfected novices are bedding down on the floor in the libraries, away from their stricken fellows. Garrett wonders if they’ll burn the bedding when all this is over, or if Glyphs can chase sickness away.

They don’t seem to have worked thus far. They didn’t save Elder Marcus or Keepers Rosalinde and Arkady.

Garrett squeezes his eyes and tries to sleep, but someone is calling for him.

“ _Garrett, wake up_ ,” someone says. It sounds like… Artemus?

“You told me I need to sleep,” he mumbles, and tries to turn his face into his pillow.

“Garrett? Wake up, _now_ ,”

A minor earthquake nearly tumbles him right out of bed and-

“What-,” Garrett blearily opened his eyes. He was lying on his rickety bed in his cramped tenement, his threadbare quilt clenched in his fists. He was as far from his old bunk in the novice dormitories as he could possibly be, and the illness that had run rampant through the Compound when he was sixteen was nothing more than an ugly memory.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and helped him lever up into a sitting position. His vision swam but only for a second.

“Sit up now,” Artemus said.

 _Artemus_ said. _Artemus was in his apartment._ What in the absolute taffing Hell was Artemus doing in his apartment?

The pieces slotted into place. Of course. Of-bloody- _course_. Garrett could probably fly to the moon and never be free of the Keepers. It had been over three years since he left and yet, there was Artemus, standing over him and frowning like Garrett was a boy who’d fallen asleep at his lessons.

“What in the _hell_ … are you doing here?” Garrett slurred, biting the inside of his cheek when the demand came out sounding less threatening and more drunk. Had he been drinking? No, no he hadn’t even put mead in his tea. Though, he supposed as slowly recalled the evening’s activities, suddenly being struck with fever and falling off a roof like a damn fool would do it just as well as too much mead would.

“Just saving your skin, boy,” Artemus said. “Though if you prefer you could go fall off another building and I’ll leave you be this time.”

Garrett’s already flushed face blazed. A hot snarl of anger rose up in his chest and he drew in a deep breath to shout something obscene at his old teacher but the inhale only brought on another coughing fit. Artemus stood aside while Garrett hacked, wheezing out curses between gasps. The fit robbed him of all strength and Garrett slumped back against his headboard, eyes shut tight and chest heaving as he recovered.

Artemus put a hand on his shoulder but Garrett shoved it away. “I’m fine,” he hissed between his teeth. “Thanks for getting me home. You can leave now,” He added.

“Garrett, you-“

“How... how did you even- Have you been _following_ me?” Garrett snarled and sat up again, fighting his swimming head.

“You’re lucky I was,” snapped Artemus, eyes narrowing. “I could have left you there, fallen like an amateur in some woman’s garden for the Watch to pick up.”

Garrett sneered, though the barb stung. “How long?” He demanded. “How long have you been watching me? Gods dead and alive, what do you _want_ from me? First the glyphs and now this. What, are you here to… to warn me? Try and make me go back? If you’re here to kill me three years is an awful long time to wait to do it. ” On some level, he knew he was talking nonsense, but fury lanced the deep wounds to his pride and insults and accusations came flowing out.

“I am not-“

“Who sent you?” Garrett swung his legs over the side on the bed and levered himself up. His knees wobbled but he leaned on the bedstead and glowered fiercely. “Which one of them sent you? I don’t care if it was the First Keeper, I swear I'll-”

His hand slipped off the headboard and his knees gave out. Artemus caught him easily.

“Think about what you're saying for once in your life!” the old man snapped. He pushed him back until he sat on the edge of the bed. Garrett’s guts roiled with humiliation while his fevered mind raced; Artemus may not have looked very strong, but Garrett was practically defenseless, laid low by whatever damn illness he had. If Artemus wanted to, he could knock Garrett on the head and drag him across the City to the Compound. Of all the Keepers, he thought Artemus would be the last one to do this. Enforcers would be better than _this_.

“Garrett are you _listening_?” Artemus said. Garrett blinked a few times and squinted up at Artemus’s lined face. His expression, concern and quiet consternation, made Garrett feel slightly ill to his stomach (as if the rest of him wasn’t ill enough). Artemus pursed his lips. “Obviously not,” he said, bending with his hands still on Garrett’s shoulders, peering into the thief’s eyes.

“Get off me,” Garrett muttered, pushing Artemus away. He felt like putting his head between his knees, but he was a little afraid of moving overmuch; throwing up in front of Artemus would be horrifying. He sat staring at the wooden floor for a few moments, sipping air cautiously and willing his guts to stop flipflopping and his throat to stop burning. He blinked and there was a cup of water under his nose. Taking it without question, Garrett drank it in three great gulps, which he then paid for with three great coughs. Artemus brought him more water; it was icy cold and tasted mineral and almost bittersweet, like water from an elemental crystal.

“You’d better not be cracking open my water arrows,” Garrett rasped.

“What do you take me for?” Artemus said, scoffing. “It’s snow from your windowsill. Is there a well nearby?”

“In the courtyard downstairs.”

Artemus shot Garrett a stern look from under his brows, “Stay here.”

“No, think I’ll go for a walk,” Garrett answered, slurring a little. As soon as Artemus shut the door behind him he leaned back and flopped down flat on the bed, his feet still dangling off the side. He covered his face with his hands and felt the rising heat in his cheeks; he was fairly certain that wasn’t due to the fever.

Artemus had never been a busybody. Oh, he’d always been around, shut-in that he was, and he usually made time for Garrett when the young novice had needed him, but he’d never been a fretter. Keeper’s probably weren’t supposed to fret, but if that was true then that made at least half of Garrett’s old teachers flagrant rule-breakers. How scandalous.

So what was he doing hovering over Garrett like an overeducated old crow over its chick?

Garrett was _not_ a crow chick.

“Embarrassing,” Garrett said to no one. His eyes slid shut of their own accord and he drifted into a light sleep until a gentle shake woke him.

He flailed for a second, empty right hand grasping blindly for the dagger he kept hidden until his pillow, but the angle was wrong and his joints still felt like they were packed with mud and tiny sharp rocks.

Artemus stood over him, frowning. He pressed another cup of water into Garrett’s hand once he was no longer thrashing around. Garrett drank slowly, wanting to fall back again and sleep for a few years before he had to deal with Artemus and all the Keeper nonsense that came with him.

The old Keeper himself busied himself with the fireplace, piling up smaller pieces of wood and flicking his fingers over them. Garrett scowled deeply when the kindling burst into flame with a flicker of blue magic.

 _Glyphs_. The Keepers left them everywhere, wards and locks on hidden doors, warnings and messages scratched into walls and paving stones, insignia marking safe-houses and trustworthy allies. There had been a small one, conspicuously inconspicuous, burned into the cobblestones outside Garrett’s old apartment in the Docks; a jagged symbol meaning, what else, _Thief_. Garrett packed up and moved house the same day he discovered it. Whether it was a warning to others, an insult to himself, or just a spiteful reminder of _We Are Watching You_ , Garrett wanted no part of it.

And there was Artemus, using it to start a fire and boil water.

“Do you have any tea that won’t keep you up for hours?”

“Check for yourself, _mother_ ,” Garrett spat. “And I don’t need any tea. I need you to leave.”

Artemus just _hmmed_ and started going through Garrett’s pantry.

“I could throw you out,” Garrett said.

“You could _try_ ,” Artemus said.

 _Taffing hell_ , Garrett thought. it would be easier to maintain his own righteous anger if Artemus showed any ire himself. One couldn’t rage at a brick wall for very long without feeling very stupid.

So he watched Artemus make tea instead, seething and fighting the urge to doze off again. The old man managed to find some kind of leafy blend that was supposed to help the drinker sleep; Garrett had actually forgotten he’d had it but he drank it eagerly when Artemus handed him a cup. It tasted weedy and was not hot enough, but it soothed his throat and his temper. Slightly.

“I understand you are in possession of Lord Bafford’s missing scepter,” Artemus said, apropos of nothing. He leaned against the footboard of Garrett’s bed, looking very much the blackbird watching over its nest.

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” Garrett said, scowling over his cup.

“It’s the City’s current Worst Kept Secret,” Artemus said. “Nothing about you, or course, but Bafford fired his entire house guard afterward, so naturally word’s been circulating. Mostly wild rumors about teams of thieves using magic and bribery.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. He’d heard a few of those wild rumors, privately gleeful at the upset he’d caused.

“It was… cleverly done.”

Garrett’s smile died. “What do you care? You don’t approve anyway.”

“I do not,” Artemus agreed. “But Bafford’s wealth is hardly the product of honest enterprise. It’s satisfying to see him knocked down a peg.”

“Even if it’s by someone who doesn’t practice honest enterprise either?”

“Well, we can’t have everything, can we?”

“So much for your _Balance_ , hm?”

Artemus only smiled serenely.

Garrett rolled the now empty cup over in his palms. “You never answered my question. How long have you been following me?”

Artemus was quiet for a moment. “When you left us... there was a lot of talk concerning Enforcers and whether or not you should have been brought back by force or simply… eliminated. We were watching you the entire time, you must know that.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Garrett said, gritting his teeth.

“Caduca, you remember Caduca? She was the one who saved you in the end.”

“The Interpreter? Your old fortune teller called them off?”

“Yes,” Artemus said quietly. “We watched for a while until we were certain you had no plans to leave the City. I’ve been continuing on my own for some time. Not every night… just every few weeks or so.” He paused, clearly waiting for Garrett to interject. He sounded a little embarrassed by the confession, which Garrett found unnerving. He felt like he should be satisfied at finally getting one over his old teacher, but Artemus's admission and apparent guilt just felt... wrong. Off-putting. 

When the thief stayed silent, Artemus continued ruefully. “Like it or not Garrett, your fate is and will always be part of a greater purpose.”

Garrett’s blood rushed in his ears and he sneered.  Back to _that_ old line again. “I am not a child anymore, _old man_. I don’t give a shit about your prophecies or your secrets and I don’t need you to lead me around or watch over me.”

“Of course not,” Artemus said coldly, slanting his gaze at Garrett in the exact same way he used to when Garrett was young and had just foolishly run his mouth off.

Garrett’s blood boiled and his breath grew short. A scream built up in his tired lungs but he swallowed it down.

“Get out,” he hissed.

“Very well,” said Artemus, all coolness and superiority and everything Garrett hated. With a rustle of cloth and the soft creak of the front door he was gone.

Garrett sat alone in silence for a long time, long enough for the Clock Tower to chime and startle him a little with how late (or early) it was.

“All this over a stupid headcold,” Garrett said, getting unsteadily to his feet and closing the shutters. He banked the fire with shaking hands and stripped out of his clothes, which felt stiff with sweat. The proper bath he’d been craving since he left Cragscleft would have to wait; he was too tired to care at the moment. He fell into bed and drew the linens up around him, thinking wistfully of those scratchy woolen blankets the Keepers stockpiled.

“I just need sleep,” he said as he closed his eyes. “Just some sleep and I’ll be better and this whole stupid drama will be over.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes this chapter took a long time to crank out. Many thanks to all you patient readers who stuck around!

Artemus had, in his youth, been very much like Garrett. It’s a fact he would readily acknowledge, having dedicated himself to the pursuit of Truth, even when it pained him. Before his relegation to teaching and research, he’d spent more time leaping the rooftops, delving into ruins, and slipping around the sights of both guards and monsters than he ever did cooped up in the library. He’d been reckless, he’d scorned dependence, and he’d flouted the decrees of his elders. Yes, Artemus would freely admit that he used to be a bit of a wild thing, just like Garrett.

But even as a young man he’d had one thing Garrett never did: _a little taffing common sense_.

Artemus flinched as the nib of his pen tore a ragged hole in his parchment, the ink overflowing and leaving an unsightly blot in its wake.

“Oh, for the love of-“ he muttered, hurriedly plucking up the ruined paper and setting it away from the clean pages. He wiped his pen on an inkstained rag and prepared another sheet. He was only trying to write up an inquiry for the Scribarium, hardly anything difficult. And yet that had been the third ruined page.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were distressed, Keeper Artemus,” said Healer Maude, stepping around from behind one of the bookcases.

“Distressed is a strong word,” said Artemus, dipping his pen again and writing out a heading in his characteristic sloping hand.

“Just feeling wasteful then?” Maude asked, picking up a viciously slashed piece of paper.

“Perhaps,” Artemus said, trying to look absorbed in his work.

“How’s Garrett recovering?”

“What?” Artemus steadied himself just in time to avoid another embarrassing black streak across the page.

“Don’t look so surprised. You should know by now that poor Nathan can’t keep a secret.”

“I keep no secrets from my fellows,” Artemus said, paraphrasing a line from the Council members’ oath of office. “Everyone knows of my dealings with Garrett.”

“I haven’t come here to accuse you of anything, quiet yourself,” Maude said, holding up her empty palms.

“Then why, exactly, have you been asking Nathan questions?”

Maude smiled a little. “I asked him nothing, he came back in a panic last night and sought me out. He told me that Garrett suffered a fall and would likely die without immediate aid.”

“Oh, Nathan,” Artemus sighed, massaging his temples.

“So, is it true? Is our Garrett at death’s door? Has the young fool broken his neck or been fatally mauled by shrubbery?”

“How much did Nathan tell you?”

“Oh, everything.”

“Oh _, Nathan_ ,” Artemus groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Maude chuckled quietly. “Don’t worry, I told him to keep his mouth shut. Anyway, I assume Garrett’s condition can’t be that bad. You wouldn’t be here if he was truly in danger.”

Artemus sighed and started to put away his writing tools. “The fall is the least of his problems.”

“So there was a fall!”

“Yes, he slipped from a roof and landed in some poor woman’s garden, Nathan got that right. He was unhurt, but he had a fever and seemed greatly disoriented. I had to carry him back to his apartment.”

“That seems rather serious,” Maude said, her dark brow knit in concern.

“He has some kind of chest cold. He was well enough to kick me out once he came to his senses.”

Maude rolled her eyes. “That sounds like him. He’s more a danger to himself than any illness could ever be.”

“No sense of self-preservation,” agreed Artemus. If anyone knew Garrett as well as he himself did, it was Maude. She’d tended more of the lad’s cuts, bruises, and breaks than Artemus could remember. Garrett had always been a terrible patient and none of the other healers would have anything to do with him unless Maude was genuinely unavailable; as chief among the healers, Maude was possessed of a strong will and constitution and wasn’t put off by certain stubborn and reckless acolytes.

“That sounds familiar,” Maude said, a sly smile gracing her features. Artemus sighed and held up his palms. “So are you going to go back to check on him?”

Artemus fussed with his pen, pursing his lips and sighing. “Probably not. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need me.”

“So he would claim. Well, should you need anything for any reason you know where to find me,” Maude said lightly. She patted Artemus’s shoulder and sauntered off, disappearing between the stacks.

Artemus wasted a few minutes, shuffling paper and trying to organize his thoughts. His eyes wandered over the books, alighting briefly on the spine of _The Letters of Third Keeper Mayar_.

_The essence of Balance is detachment._

That tenet had seemed both simple and unattainable when Artemus was a lad. Artemus had been given to the Keepers when he was seven years old, the youngest son of a family long allied with the order. There were many such families, most of them older than the City itself, their names only ever written in Glyphs and never spoken aloud. There had never been a day since that young age that Artemus did not know what he would someday become. However, that knowledge had never made the process any easier.

 _Headstrong_ , his elders had called him then. _Talented to be sure, but possessed of a passion that must be curbed should he wish to reach his full potential_ , one instructor had said of him when he was twenty-one. It had stung deeply, which in turned vexed him even more because it was _not_ Balanced to feel stung by an honest appraisal.

All his life he had worked for that detachment, despaired at his own inability to beat down his sentiment, strove to identify and pluck out whatever it was that held him back from his goal.

At thirty-three he thought he had succeeded. He had been one of the most accomplished Field Agents in the entire Order. Somewhere along the line his fellows stopped calling him _headstrong, reckless, impulsive_ and started calling him _disciplined, cool-headed, thoughtful._

Reliable. Scholarly. Discreet. _Balanced_ at last.

Then there was the evening when he was interrupted on a routine errand by a smart-mouth urchin making an inexpert grab at his purse. Artemus could have been an Enforcer with his skill for going unseen, but the boy had spotted him with no trouble at all. The offer was out of Artemus’s mouth before he knew what was happening. When he arrived back at the Compound with a grubby, half-starved beggar boy in tow no one knew what to make of it. Artemus letting some stray brat follow him home? _Artemus?_ It had to be a joke, right?

That had been just over twelve years ago. Where had his precious Balance gone? Most likely it went the way of his hair, which had once been black as pitch and now was a uniform iron grey and getting lighter every year. Was it Garrett’s doing entirely or did it just come with age?

The thought of Garrett, feverish, wild-eyed, doubled over with a wracking cough, flashed through Artemus’s mind like a blade in the dark.

Artemus swept up his writing tools and went off in search of his cloak.


	5. Chapter 5

Garrett did not get better.

The next day was a long stretch of misery from one fevered nap to the next shivery, clammy awakening. When he wasn’t asleep, Garrett tried to mend his gear but he soon found that his stitches were too big and crooked to do any damn bit of good; they’d all have to be ripped out. His hands trembled and his eyes drooped even as he held the needle. He tried re-re-re-reading one of his penny dreadfuls but the words swam before his eyes and he’d blink back into awareness after several minutes only to realize he hadn’t been reading at all, just turning the pages after giving each one a cursory scan. He even tried looking at Felix’s notes but the combination of Felix’s handwriting and the terrible map made his head ache. Plus there was the distinct possibility of yet more undead; which made Garrett’s gorge rise violently.

He still had a few days before he had to meet up with Sammie. It wasn’t as though some trifling illness could _stop_ him, naturally, but he would rather not let anyone see him looking so haggard and weak. His reflection in the mirror still showed a sallow, sickly creature, not the Master Thief.

He could get over this in a few days. Surely.

The next day or so (two days? One day? _Three_ days?) would remain blurry and strange in Garrett’s memory for a long time. He slept only sporadically, awakened by his own coughing and wheezing. He tried to eat but almost everything burned his throat and refused to stay down.

He had nightmares and dreams that shifted into one another like blood in water. The nightmares were a mix of his childhood terrors of Watchmen, violent drunkards, and sharp-toothed attack dogs, all shook up and muddled with visions of the undead; the putrid smell of decay, the incessant moaning, and the loud, gory explosion that came when one was killed.

The dreams were not as horrible but they were no less unsettling. He saw himself as a lad, filthy and skinny, clinging onto Artemus’s cape, scrutinized by a hundred shadowy faces hidden in dark cowls. The silent stacks of books in the libraries; how tall and fantastic they had seemed when he was a boy. Row after row after row of glyphs, his hand aching from hours of transcribing. The Compound seemed huge and labyrinthine, as though he was seeing it from a much lower point of view than usual. The corners were darker, the windows higher up and filled with blue moonlight. There was a voice, calm but with a hard edge to it, that followed him everywhere, even when he was alone. _Concentrate, try again, let it become natural to you._

He’d wake with a start every time, his arms flung out to defend himself or reaching for something he couldn’t find.

He woke from a strange and shadowy vision to late morning sunlight streaming obnoxiously through the shutters. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he got up and staggered to the window, grabbing a cleanish pot along the way. He went to the window and opened it up, blinking owlishly at the harsh reflection of the sun off the previous night’s crop of snow. He scooped as much as he could off the wide windowsill and then went to his other window, which opened up onto the roof of a lean-to attached to his building. There was more snow there and he filled the pot gratefully. He was less grateful when he realized just how damn heavy it was. It was a smaller pot, but his arms felt weak and his fingers ached from holding the wire handle. Lighting the fire was a struggle, but after several smokey tries he got a small blaze going.

As he melted the snow over the fire, he tried to formulate some kind of plan. He had no memory of what or when he last ate, and his stomach was starting to gnaw on itself. More pressing was the persistent weakness. He needed to eat something or he wouldn’t be able to recover as quickly, if at all. On top of that, he needed something to help keep the food _down_.

His pantry was a sorry sight; stale bread and one swiftly browning apple. A few scrapings of the last of his tea made a paltry breakfast.

There were no children living in his tenement building, and he refused to hire some urchin off the street to do his shopping for him. Street children were all too happy to sell information to anyone who asked; Garrett had sidelined as an informant himself as a young child. He wasn’t the most distinctive person, but there were a few nasty taffers who’d _love_ to know where he lived. Ramirez and his goons came to mind, as well as the godsdamned Thieves’ Guild. Bloody vultures.

He also staunchly refused to ask one of his neighbors on the grounds that he’d spoken to them perhaps twice in the whole year he’d lived there.

That left one option: going out himself. His stumbling, coughing, shivery self.

 _Might as well do it now when I still have my wits about me_ , he thought ruefully. Another hours-long bout of delirium didn’t bode well. He had to make the most of this period of lucidity while he could.

It was a bright, clear day, but still very cold. That made putting together a disguise fairly easy. Plain, homespun clothes with his hooded winter cloak and a thickly knitted muffler concealed his face and build well enough. He still looked like death warmed over, but on the bright side perhaps that would keep people from getting too close. Thinking longingly of the traceable and therefore untradeable haul currently hidden beneath his floorboards, he scraped together enough coin to get him by and left his building, bracing himself for crowds and too-bright daylight.

The streets were fairly quiet, what with most sane people staying indoors. The few people he passed gave him a wide berth, their eyes flicking over his bedraggled clothing and hunched posture. The first ten minutes or so of walking were unpleasant, but manageable. As he pressed on, however, his sudden bout of wellness rapidly deserted him. About halfway to his destination, Garrett ducked into a doorway and rested for a while, his sweaty face pressed lightly to icy cold stone. Only willpower kept him from retching. This was a bad idea. He was such an idiot. _How had he thought this was the right thing to do?_

 _Well, fool,_ he thought, _You’ve got yourself into this. How are you going to fix it?_ He could always turn around and go home and suffer in unhumiliated peace. _And still have nothing to eat when I get there. Great plan._

There was nothing for it. He had to keep going and damn the consequences. He dithered for a few more minutes before he hardened his resolve and continued on.

A few yards down the street behind him, a young woman darted after him, stepping silently from shadow to shadow.

His first stop was the apothecary, who took one look at him and demanded that he make his order from just outside the door.

“I have very delicate materials in here, I can’t risk contamination,” she snapped when Garrett glowered viciously at her. In the end, he walked away with more tea, some kind of ugly yellow root that was supposed to help his stomach, and a lighter purse. Being ill was expensive. Garrett made it to the grocers mainly on frustration and anxiety. He had a pile of gold back home that would buy him some kind of miracle cure, he was certain. But without Sammie, he was stuck with tea and whatever the root thing could do.

The grocer was only mildly more successful, if only because he was allowed to actually enter the shop. Winter pickings never very appetizing, but they had enough root vegetables and bread to keep Garrett from starving for at least a week.

Lugging his packages and daydreaming about his bed, Garrett began the trek back home. It was slow going. He made it with only one incident: a few steps from the tenement front door, a young man came speeding around the corner of the building and, looking behind him instead of where he feet were taking him, rammed right into Garrett. With the wind knocked from his lungs and his head spinning, he dropped everything onto the cobblestones, barely noticing that his scarf and been pulled aside and his hood knocked back. The young man, whoever he was, squeaked a quick ‘Sorry!’ before running off.

Garrett snarled to himself and gathered up his things. He was so occupied with picking everything up, not to mention thoughts of getting up to his bed and sleeping for the next five or ten years, that he  didn’t care to take a look around before entering his building.

He had no way of knowing that two sets of eyes were on him the entire time; one deeply concerned, the other gleeful and murderous.

 


End file.
